CHAPTER

EIGHTEEN

FIVE OR SO WEEKS AGO

“What’s up? What’s going on?” I’d popped into the Peach Parlor, the small room just off the front hall that boasted peach wallpaper, carpeting, and furniture, thusly named because we were all low on imagination. “Is it a new Big Bad? Is it an old Big Bad? Or are we finally having that vodka intervention for Tina?”

“Never mind my vodka,” Tina warned through a smile.

“Where is everybody?”

“I shall endeavor not to take offense at that.”

I waved that away. “Aw, you know what I mean.”

“His Majesty will be through the door momentarily

(I shall be with you momentarily, my own.)

and this is official vampire king and queen business, and no concern of the others.”

“The others” would take exception, especially Marc, but in my ancient wisdom (I’d be hitting thirty-five pretty soon) I was learning to pick my squabbles. (Marc in a snit wasn’t exactly a battle. More like a nine-hour headache.)

Just then we heard the front door open and in bounded the king of the vampires, carrying two bulging bags of— Aw, no.

“Another flea market? Seriously? This obsession with other people’s junk is getting grosser by the week.”

“One man’s trash, and all that, my love.” He dropped the bags without ceremony—it was never about the stuff, just the trip to buy the stuff—and came into the parlor, bending to give me a hearty smack on the mouth. “Missed you, wife. You would have liked it.”

“That’s a lie and you know it. Only people furnishing their first apartment and retirees enjoy flea markets. I told you after the last one I was flea’d out, and I’m sticking to that. Those outdoor markets are like crack to you. Don’t make me cut up your credit cards! And your cash.”

It was all for show; I got almost as big a kick out of Sinclair enjoying the warmth of sunshine without the accompanying warmth of going up in flames.

“Tina.”

“Majesty.”

“Is this the four o’clock you were telling me about? The young lady and her uncle?”

“Yes.”

“You were downright coy about it,” he continued, and Tina smiled and winked at me. Eh? Coy? What?

“I think it might be a pleasant surprise, Majesty.”

“Really? For him, or for all of us? Fill me in,” I ordered, because I should at least look like I knew what was going on when the meeting started.

“Fill you in again, did you mean?” Tina asked with honeyed sweetness.

“Do you know what happens to a bottle of vodka when you throw it down the basement stairs?”

“I’ll be good,” she said quickly.

“You’d better, or the Cucumber vodka gets it.” But the doorbell rang just then

(donnnnnngggg GONNNNNGGGGGG)

so that was the end of extortion time. Too bad.

“Did we pay extra for the doorbell to sound so ominous?”

“Not at all, my own. I believe it came with the house.”

“Well, hooray for added bonuses.”

“Redundant, my dear.”

“Aw, shaddup.” He made a grab for me but, wise to his wicked ways, I managed to avoid it, and his deep chuckle practically made the room vibrate.

Before things could get interesting, and naked, Tina escorted our visitors into the room, but before I could do more than give them a quick once-over, Sinclair was crossing the room and exclaiming with real warmth, “Lawrence, hello!”

The vampire who’d come in with the cheerleader didn’t immediately extend his hand; instead he tilted his head down and dropped his gaze in a subtle bow of deference. Sinclair waved that away (I’d never seen him do that with any vampires besides Tina and me) and they shook hands. Then Sinclair turned to me. “My queen, permit me to introduce to you an old friend, Lawrence Taliaferro. Lawrence, this is Elizabeth.”

“Betsy,” I said, like I always do. (Only Sinclair calls me Elizabeth. And my mom when I’m in big trouble.)

I got the elegant head-bow treatment and then shook his cool, long-fingered hand. Lawrence was a couple inches shorter than me at about five foot ten, with brown hair swept back from his forehead and dark, deep-set eyes. He had a lush mouth and high cheekbones and appeared to be dressed for a funeral in a sober black suit, crisp white shirt, and brown paisley tie. His coat sleeves were cut long, brushing almost to his knuckles, and he had new black dress shoes shined to a high gloss. Etienne Aigner, I decided after a peek. Very nice.

He could have been as old as he looked—late thirties—or five centuries beyond that. I couldn’t tell at first sight, not the way Sinclair and Tina could. They could just sort of get a sense of a vamp’s age, but not me. Of course, if they looked barely drinking age but started ranting about the fascism of the Prohibition years, that was usually a pretty good tip that they were eligible for AARP membership. But vampires weren’t always so obliging about revealing their long years, and it was one of the few things Tina and Sinclair could do that I couldn’t. Not everything about being the queen was something that was automatically easy. It was kind of comforting.

“This is my young companion—”

Young companion? Okay, he’s old.

“—Cindy Tinsman.” His tone was formal and there was a faint hint of a Southern accent. He beckoned the girl forward and she came, sticking close to his side. She looked intimidated but wildly excited, her pretty tip-tilted dark eyes gleaming as she took everything in. Her hair was razor straight, her bangs so perfectly trimmed you could use them as a ruler. She had shaved part of the left side of her head

(when will that awful trend die? curse you, Miley Cyrus!)

and let the other side swing to about shoulder level. She was in jeans, sneakers, a sweater, and a Simley Spartans high school jacket with a cheering letter.

“Friends with the family?” Sinclair asked, nodding at her.

“Her great-great-grandfather saved my life. I keep an eye on his descendants for him.”

Now see, this was the cool thing about some vampires. The good ones used their powers for—well—good. It was nice to know Tina’s experience with Sinclair’s family wasn’t an isolated case, and I liked Lawrence a lot just for that.

“And Miss Chavelle, I see you back there. Nothing to say to an old friend?”

“Lawrence,” Tina said demurely (!), offering her hand. He bent over it but didn’t quite kiss it (apparently that was a huge etiquette no-no in some circles, or in 1860). “Always a charmer.”

“Not enough of one, I fear,” he replied, straightening. The black suit made him seem taller than he was, and the cultivated, barely there accent made him sound like a cheerful undertaker: happy, but not too happy.

“That wasn’t your fault,” she said in a tone of mild reproach. “I think it’s time you stopped punishing yourself for it.”

“As always, I am at a lady’s command. So lovely to see a Southern girl up here in the wild wastes of the frontier.”

Okay, really really old.

“Please sit.” Tina gestured to the love seat, couch, and chairs. “You said it was a matter of some urgency and that only the king and queen could help.”

“Urgency, yes.” But Lawrence grimaced and flicked a glance at Cindy. “But only according to some, like my little girl here.”

“’Mnot a little girl.”

He took in the sullen mumble with a fond look. “When she was younger, she called me Uncle, and so did her mama, years back.”

“Lawrence,” she whined.

He laid it out straight: sorry to disturb, Cindy wanted to become a vampire, like right now, like now now because cancer and, again, sorry to bother you with this pesky vampire stuff.

“Wait, what?”

Cindy looked at me, which was an improvement over her glaring at the yucky peach carpet. “My mom and both my aunts died of breast cancer in their forties. Both my grandmas, too. I’m gonna have to be like Angelina Jolie and get my boobs cut off and my uterus out and everything. And maybe I’ll just die anyway.”

Well, we all died anyway, but I was beginning to see her point. But perhaps it wasn’t as bleak a picture as she was painting. I had no problem admitting this stuff wasn’t my area.

Can we get Marc in on this?

Agreed.

Sinclair glanced at Tina, who simply raised her voice. “Dr. Spangler, would you join us?”

“Hmm?” Looking entirely too innocent, Marc stuck his head around the door frame. Busted! “Oh, sorry, didn’t realize you were conducting business in here.”

“On your way out for a jog?” I needled. “With scrubs and a stethoscope around your neck?”

He stood on his dignity and ignored me, and I had to make a real effort not to snicker. “Did you need something, Tina?”

She just quirked an eyebrow at him, and his expression—polite boredom—didn’t match how he hustled into the room, almost knocking over one of the overstuffed chairs on his way to her side. “This is Dr. Spangler,” she explained to Cindy, who managed a smile (and why not? Marc was a cutie anytime, but looked cute and competent as shit when in doctor mode), and Lawrence, who just stared. And stared. And wouldn’t shake hands. And stared.

I started to bristle, when Sinclair’s voice slid into my brain like a cool drink. He knows Marc isn’t a vampire but is dead. It’s throwing him off. Have patience, my own; most of our kind have never seen a zombie. Lawrence is a good man and will remember his manners at any moment.

Right, right. Sorry.

Trust me. Of all men, Lawrence will be the first to give a zombie the benefit of the doubt.

Okay. Good enough for me, let’s give him a minute.

Lawrence seemed to come back to himself and reached out, lightning fast—too fast, Marc flinched—to shake his hand. “Pardon, your pardon, Dr. Spangler. It seems I’ve left my manners out on the street, for which there is no excuse. I— It’s been a difficult week. My apologies again.”

“Yeah, tell us how hard it’s been for you,” Cindy said acidly, reminding me why teenagers were terrible, and how glad I was I would never be one again. Trapped in an ever-changing adult body and the accompanying hormone tsunami, and constantly urged to act like an adult while being refused all adult privileges. Nightmare.

“Cindy has a family history of cancer,” Tina explained, and brought him up to speed.

Marc thought about it, absently rubbing the stethoscope bell with his thumb. “I’m not an oncologist,” he said after a minute, eyes vague while he ruminated, “but preemptive mastectomies would certainly be an option.” Then he looked right at her. “You lost someone recently. Right?”

“My last aunt,” came the short reply. “November.”

That explains the urgency. How to explain to a teenager nothing has to be decided, much less acted on, right this minute? Answer: you can’t.

What the hell, I went for it. “Cindy, I’m so sorry for your loss. But it’s a little soon to decide that a lethal allergy to sunshine, a liquid diet, and permanent blackout curtains are the way to go. You’ve got years to—”

“No! I have to get turned now. If I wait too long I could be a vampire with cancer.” Which was technically true. I had my appendix out when I was thirteen, and it didn’t grow back when I came back as a vampire. If you had gray hairs or wrinkles or arthritis in life, you’d have them in (un)death. One of the most powerful vampires I ever met/killed was turned in her sixties. She could overpower just about anybody, but still had permanent crow’s-feet and shitty close vision. She was the vampire nation’s librarian and archivist, which made the whole thing even more ironic and unsettling.

“Okay, that’s a fair point, but—”

“I’m not just going to—going to chop pieces off myself to try to stay ahead of the fucking thing only to maybe end up with it anyway, duh!”

“Cindy.” Lawrence’s voice was like a whip (judging from her flinch, anyway). “I did not bring you here to be unforgivably rude to my sovereigns. Apologize at once.”

I waved it away before she could open her mouth, to Sinclair’s vague annoyance. “’Sfine. Look, you’re not even a legal adult yet. Even if we were on board with Plan Outwit/Outplay/Outlast Cancer, we couldn’t turn you. There are laws about that stuff.”

Kind of. More like firm guidelines, big number one being no fair turning kids, asshats. In the old days, the vampire who turned the kid and the kid were killed in a variety of nasty, vomit-inducing ways. Having met such a vampire—a century old but forever trapped in the body of a fifth grader; imagine the horror—I never wanted to meet one again.

To our knowledge, since we’d come to power no one had turned a child. When it happened (it was, Sinclair explained, inevitable, because there was nothing new under the sun, and assholes were everywhere) we’d tackle it, and them: the turner and the turnee. Penalties would depend on the circumstances, though our inclination was something along the lines of, Fuck you. You don’t do that to kids. Any last words before we set your lungs on fire?

“I know. That’s why we’re here,” she replied, and she actually stomped her foot in her impatience. Gawd, adults were soooo sloooow. “Because you guys can break that rule. You can break any rule; you’re the ones in charge.”

Her neck would snap like a dead branch. Sinclair’s thought was more wistful than murderous; this was not a vampire king interested in, or used to, dealing with kids. He liked BabyJon, and found Jessica’s weird babies fascinating, but that was about it.

Knock it off. Being sixteen sucks.

In my day . . .

When you do that? It’s not sexy. At all. Besides, give her props just for having the courage to come. And there’s something else going on with her. It’s not just making an end run around cancer . . .

“I’m sorry, Cindy, but the answer is no. You’re too young, you haven’t adequately researched all your options, and you’re too young.” I turned to Lawrence, who looked like the least surprised person ever. “But it was kind of you to bring her here, and I’m always glad to meet a friend of Sinclair’s.” Had I ever? My husband was not a warm, welcoming man to people who weren’t me, Marc, Jessica, Dick, their weird babies, BabyJon, my mom, or Tina. No, I could honestly say I’d never met a friend of his.

“No, come on!” Another foot stomp, this one more frantic. She was wearing the wrong shoes if she wanted to draw attention that way; two-inch heels would have been better and, against the thick carpet, spikes would have been best. “What do you care if one more vamp gets made? Lawrence will bite me and take care of me and teach me everything and you’ll never see me again. Or you’ll see me all the time! Whichever one you want.”

I do not want to see this child all the time.

Simmer down, your inner old fogey is showing. I cleared my throat and said aloud, “What does your dad—”

“Don’t talk about my dad! He doesn’t know anything. Too busy scribbling his stupid local color stories that no one ever reads.”

“The reason I ask—”

“He wrote for the Pioneer Press, but not even online,” she sneered. “The paper part of the newspaper no one ever reads. Until he took a leave of absence to pretend to be sad my mom died.”

“Uh—” Getting a little far afield of the topic here. “Look, the fact that you think it’ll be as easy as just getting chomped and waking up dead and then darting off into the sunset—except sunsets would have to be avoided at all costs—proves you haven’t thought this through. For starters, when you come back, you’ll be crazy.”

Cindy made an impatient noise without opening her mouth: ggnnn! “I already said. Lawrence will take care of me.”

“No, I already said. You’re not listening. You’ll be crazy. Literally a drooling psychopath with an unholy lust for blood. I know that sounds like something out of a bad horror movie, but that’s what you’ll be dealing with. And that particular phase of the festivities tends to last about a decade. The lucky ones, they come back to themselves in maybe seven years.”

“That’s not true, Lawrence told me all about Sinclair, how he was born strong—”

Sinclair’s eyebrows arched and Lawrence made an apologetic half shrug. “When she was younger, I would tell her stories about my, ah, misspent youth at Snelling, and your granddaddy.”

Understandable. But he left the really nasty stuff out. Also understandable, but only talking up the good and never mentioning the bad was why we were trapped in the Peach Parlor with a pissy cheerleader who kept stomping for attention in soft-soled sneakers that made no noise.

“That’s very rare, dear,” Tina put in smoothly. “It’s one of the reasons the king is the king.”

“How rare?”

She didn’t blink at the demand. “Perhaps one in ten thousand.”

“So there’s a chance.”

“That’s what you got out of one in ten thousand?” I asked, incredulous. “There’s a chance? You’ve got a better chance of dying in an earthquake! Or—or—”

“Being electrocuted,” Marc prompted.

“Yes!” ER doctors really came in handy sometimes. “That!”

“What about you? You look about my age,” Cindy said, gesturing to Tina’s youthful hotness. “How old were you when you got turned?”

Tina hesitated a moment, then apparently decided to let her have that one, likely because of Lawrence. “Seventeen.”

“See! That was allowed, and you turned out—”

“He didn’t ask to turn me.” Tina managed a very sour smile. “He just did it. He was sorry, though. Afterward.”

THAT IS ENTIRELY TINA’S BUSINESS AND HER PERSONAL STRUGGLE IS NOTHING THIS SPOILED CHILD WILL UNDERSTAND HOW DARE SHE HOW DARE SHE HOW—

I swallowed a groan and elbowed Sinclair in the ribs. Then plunged ahead because there are few things I hate more than an awkward silence. “Cindy. Listen: you’ll be insane for a decade, just plan for it; any other assumption isn’t realistic. I mean, someone always wins the lottery, but buying a ticket is no guarantee, so just assume you’ll lose. You’ll be an animal, your only instinct will be to chase down blood from any source all the time. You won’t be picky, Cindy. Babies, puppies, your dad, possibly while he’s writing an article you don’t think anyone will read because it’s not online. You’ll go for Lawrence, too, though you’ll hate how he tastes.”

She looked at the carpet and mumbled something I didn’t quite catch: “Nmmmddtt.” It almost sounded like . . . hmm.

“And like I said, that’s just phase one.”

“I thought phase one was bleeding out and dying,” Marc put in, eyes wide and interested.

“Okay, that’s phase two, then. Either way, you’re not ready. And may never be. Come see us again in ten years,” I said. “We can talk about this then, see if there’s anything to be done.”

“I could be dead in ten years!”

“If we let Lawrence turn you, you’ll be dead by morning,” I warned. “This isn’t Twilight, get it? It’s not even a little bit romantic. Or fun. It’s not a chaste kiss and then off to la-la land followed by a leisurely return from the grave where nothing’s changed and everyone’s happy to see you. It’s not any of that. It’s terrifying and it’ll sweep you up and there won’t be a damned thing you can do. About any of it. I’m sorry, the answer is no.”

“Well, you . . .” Her eyes squinched up as she fought to say something that would change my mind, or at least make me as mad and disappointed as she was. “You’re just a bitch. You don’t care about anyone and . . . and you’re mean. You’re a mean fucking bitch, and what kind of a name is Betsy for a queen?”

“Ouch,” I replied, flicking a calm down glance at Tina, who’d gotten to her feet at bitch and looked ready to rumble. “You realize you’re just making my case stronger with the name-calling, right?”

“This is my fault,” Lawrence muttered.

Yep.

Well. Yes.

“Filling your head with all that nonsense from the cradle.” He sighed. “But your mama and grandmama never seemed to mind those stories . . .”

“Besides, do you really want to be stuck with that look for the next several centuries? I mean, the color’s cute—I love the blue—but you don’t really see Miley Cyrus as an icon of classical beauty, do you?”

“I’m not copying that dumbass,” she snapped back. “I’m copying Rihanna!”

“Again: you’re kind of making my argument for me. Look.” I pointed to myself, showed her my hands. “I was lucky enough to die when my haircut and color were only a couple of weeks old and my manicure was only one day old. How often does that happen? I mean, what are the odds? You don’t want to spend eternity hating your trendy hairstyle, which is doomed to fall out of fashion, right? It’d be like—like always having to do the thong whale-tail thing for centuries: uncomfortable and unnecessary.”

“You think that’s a good look on you?” From the size of Cindy’s sneer, I guessed she disagreed. “Your bangs are too short and nobody does red lowlights anymore.”

“Wrong on both counts. People will do—or want, at least—red lowlights until the planet cracks. Now, I’m sorry we had to turn you down, but our word on this is final. You and Lawrence are welcome to stay,” I lied, “but for all intents and purposes—”

“And your shoes are ugly.”

I had a brief Homer Simpson moment

(“Why, you little—” Cue strangling noises.)

and by the time I shook it off Tina was hustling them out the door.

“Wait! It’s okay, let go of her.” With deepest reluctance—I don’t think I had ever seen her so reluctant—she did. “I want to talk to her for a minute. Sinclair, maybe take Lawrence and get him a cognac or something?”

Marc smiled. “The g is silent.”

“Yeah, yeah. Listen, Tina and Cindy and I need a minute of girl talk. You guys head out.”

I trust you’re up to something, beloved. I expect to be regaled.

We’ll find out. Might be nothing.

Never discount feminine intuition.

Ugh. Fogey.

“Hellooo? Are you in there?” Marc asked as the other men walked out. “You’ve got that blank look you get when you’re telepathing.”

“That’s a verb now?” I asked, amused. “Scram, I said this is girl talk.”

“But I’m your gay BFF! Or I would be, if anyone used ‘BFF’ anymore. And whatever it is you’re gonna talk about, I bet it’ll be good.”

“I can’t believe I’m telling a doctor this, but gay men don’t have vaginas and thus don’t qualify for girl talk. Go away.”

Grumbling, he (finally) left. When he did, I turned to Cindy, who had sunk into the love seat once Tina let go of her.

“What? D’you want me to apologize? Fine. Sorry you’re a bitch.”

“Gosh, thanks! Appreciate it! That’s the most heartfelt apology ever! Everything’s fixed and now we’ll be super-good friends!” I rolled my eyes; did this teen twit think she could outsarcasm me? Me? Easier to outswim or outdrink Michael Phelps. “What’s really going on, Cindy?”

I got a shrug for an answer, which wasn’t surprising. But I was undeterred. I had a shit memory for names. I was in over my head in Hell. Jessica had been doing my taxes for me since I was eighteen (and now Tina did). I insisted on wearing purple even though I was a summer. I was a bitchy wife and a selfish friend. But I knew what a girl with a crush looked like. Hell, I’d had a Ryan Reynolds poster in my bedroom. When I was twenty-nine.

“Knock it off. You’re not fooling us. Is it him?” I jerked my head toward the door Lawrence had just used. “That’s the reason behind the reason. Isn’t it?”

Cindy’s head came up, startled, and her wide eyes were answer enough. “It’s not like that,” she mumbled, except I remembered how he’d mentioned she used to call him “Uncle” Lawrence when she was small. And how she didn’t do that anymore. She’d corrected him when he called her his little girl, too. And not in a fond “come on, obviously I’m not a little girl anymore, you sentimental old softie, you” way. More like, “Don’t think of me that way. I love you. I love you. Please see me as a woman.”

“Sure it is. Look, I get it. I’m married to a guy who, if he lived in Iowa, would have to renew his driver’s license every two years and take a vision exam each time, that’s how old he is. He could be king of the AARP and the vampires. You think I can’t relate to—” I started to say “crushing on,” but nothing turned off a teen in love faster than that stupid, insignificant word. “Crush,” like it was some silly, immature thing, a passing fancy. Best way to get a teenager to close off? Imply that what they’re feeling isn’t real because they’re younger than Google.12 “You think I don’t know what it’s like to love an older man?”

She took that in and sort of unscrunched herself from the miserable ball she’d curled herself into, then leaned forward. “His wife’s been dead forever, he’s been alone forever, it’s why he spent so much time with our family because he was so lonesome and I know he loves me I mean he loved my mom and grandma but he wasn’t in love with them and besides they never loved him back like I do and you have to turn me into a vampire because I need to stay young I can’t get old and cut off my tits and expect him to love me please don’t you understand?”

Aw, jeez. I waited a few seconds, sort of hoping Tina might have something wonderfully insightful and wise to say to somehow fix how much messier the situation had just gotten, but she just looked at Cindy, her face creased in an expression of profound pity.

“I’m sorry,” I said, and I’d rarely meant anything more. “Love sucks. And I still can’t help you.”

“Won’t,” she said, animation leaking away, scrunching back into a dejected lump.

“Well. Yeah. I won’t help you. I know you think I’m a stupid, uncaring bitch, and I am, but in this one thing my method of handling it is for the best.”

“I hate you. All of you. And him the most.”

No, she didn’t. Which, of course, was the problem. Tina and I looked at each other and she lifted one of her shoulders in a slight, apologetic shrug. My sentiments exactly; never had a shrug

(the whole situation is so unfortunate but there’s really nothing we can do; perhaps best to let time be the great teacher)

been more elegant.

So that was that.